Handsome and the Hound
by Jenetica
Summary: When Sam Campbell, one of the famous Campbell hunters, took the witches case, he expected a easy kill-and-move-on job. He couldn't be more wrong. Dean Winchester never asked for much from life but, when a brown puppy wound its way into his heart, he found himself finally having a reason to really live.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hi everyone! This is my first Supernatural fic, and it's completely unbeta'd, so go easy on me! If you see any glaring mistakes (be they grammatical or plot-based), feel free to drop me a review! This prologue is pretty short, but I wanted to post a little something to gauge interest. So let me know what you think! Thanks for reading! Xx**

Sam Campbell pulled into the motel parking lot, flicking off the radio as he got out of his car. He rolled his shoulders, forcing the bunched muscles to shift and relax.

Sam was a hunter, one in a long line. The Campbell family was one of the oldest hunting families in America. They were the only family to survive the Croatoan blight in Roanoke. After barely making it out, they laid low, working with a small tribe of Native Americans that had been haunted by a vengeful spirit to fight ghosts and ward off demons. The tribes, happy to share their knowledge with the family, taught them a wealth of spells, concoctions, and lore. They taught the Campbells to hunt wendigos and lake monsters, as well as the deer and fish they would need to survive. They taught them which berries were poison and which were not. They taught them to survive.

Legend says that Wilhelmina Campbell fell in love with a Secotan chieftain, and birthed a son unlike any other. He was gifted with the sword, deadly with the bow, and brutal with the spear. He could recall lore he had heard in his youth, and he knew how to kill any creature that dared cross his path. He was, legend says, the best hunter that had ever lived, and from his seed descended every great hunter America had ever seen.

Sam doubted any of this was actually true, but the Campbells were a proud people that liked to believe that vanquishing evil was as much in their blood as in their hearts. And, hell, as long as it involved ganking an evil sonova bitch, Sam didn't much care.

Despite being "retired," Samuel Campbell, his father (and yes, they did have the same name. Did he mention that Campbells were proud?), had taught Sam everything he knew, from how to prepare a Djinn antidote to how to recognize and defeat at Rakshasa. Samuel had made it his job to prepare Sam for any and every hunt.

This hunt had been messy. Witches always were. This particular coven had been hexing men that cheated on their wives.

That reminded Sam, he had a "follow-up appointment" with one of the wives tomorrow. He smirked as he unlocked his motel room. Mrs. Evans was thrilled to see her husband go, a fact that she made sure to enthuse as she typed her number into Sam's phone. At least one good thing would come from this case.

Sam was still thinking about Mrs. Evans and her rather ample assets as he walked into his room. The buxom brunette quickly left his thoughts, however, when he saw the woman standing in his room.

Make that witch, Sam noted, as she began to chant.

"Semper ille maledictus, et qui condemnat justum, qui discipulos. Usque ad amorem perfidiae agnoscit esse peccatum mortale, ita damnabitur. Qui amat condemnandi nisi omnino remanebit, redimeret, ut illa virtus sit solum in anima."

Suddenly, his entire body began to itch. Actually, make that burn. "Who are youuu," Sam cried. He saw the witch smirk before the pain became too much, and the world faded to black.


	2. Chapter One- Meeting Dean

**A/N: Hello all! Chapter one, woohoo! Thank you to everyone that has favorited/followed my story- you guys are awesome! Like I mentioned last chapter, all of this is unbeta'd, so please feel free to PM me if you find any horrible mistakes. Or want to beta for me (hinthint :)). Please do review! Do you like it, do you hate it? ****I want to know!Disclaimer that I forgot last time: I own nothing. If I owned anything, Gabriel would be back by now.  
**

* * *

_This is the life_, Dean Winchester thought. He took a massive bite of his Bacon Cheddar Butterburger, rocking his head to one of his favorite mullethead rock jams. Underneath the thrumming baseline of Metallica, his cherry '67 Chevy Impala purred, content to cruise the roads of America at sixty-five miles per hour. _This is really living it._

He was forty miles outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana, where a coven of witches had been terrorizing some philandering husbands. So far, three men were dead, but Dean knew the witches weren't done. Once those bitches got started dealing out their special brand of justice, no one was safe. So, even if those bastards were getting what they deserved (Dean didn't hold much regard for cheaters), he had to put an end to it.

Finishing his burger, he tossed the empty wrapper to the back seat and sped up. The quicker he finished this job, the better.

Well, he didn't think it would be quite _that _easy, but Dean wasn't complaining. He spoke to the local sheriff and apparently a federal officer had already come through to handle the case. No one seemed to know how, but men stopped dying about two days ago. Dean knew the signs: another hunter had gotten here first.

Usually, Dean was disappointed when he didn't get the kills, but, well, witches, man. They're just _eugh_. They're all slime and spew and which-body-part-haven't-we-shriveled-lately. He always felt dirty after a witch hunt, the kind of dirty that lingered with a man for days. So, as far as he was concerned, good riddance.

Dean drove back to his motel room and started changing out of his suit. He had already bought the room for the night, he figured he might as well hit the bar and make a night of it. He paused for a moment, about to undo the third button on his starchy shirt. Maybe he should go business casual? Chicks always seemed a little more eager when they thought he was someone of actual money making. Just as the thought passed through his mind, a spot on his lower back started itching.

Nope, fuck it. Wasn't worth the discomfort. He continued undoing the buttons, looking forward to the comfort of his trusty jeans and favorite button-down.

He stopped by the motel office before he headed out. "Hi," he said, grinning at the girl behind the counter, "I just checked in today and I've never been here before. Where can a guy go to relax?"

"You mean besides right here, behind the counter?" the receptionist flirted, her eyes glittering with amusement. "The closest bar is The Pines. It's about half a mile up this street. Can't miss it."

"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean replied. He gave the girl a once-over. She was cute, if not a little young. Still, he liked her. "What's your name, again?"

"Jamie," she responded. "And I get off at eleven. Maybe I'll meet you there?"

"Maybe you will," Dean agreed, giving her his patented Dean Winchester I'm-just-as-good-as-I-look smile. If she was old enough to buy her own drinks, his moral conscience would be clear tonight.

He strolled out of the office and walked toward the Impala. He stopped, resting a hand on the taillight. Did he want to drive to the bar? It was only half a mile; he could probably walk there in fifteen minutes or so. And that way he could drink and not worry about driving. He didn't care about the legality of it, mind, but he really didn't trust his inebriated self with his baby.

Was he going to get drunk? Or just tipsy? He couldn't handle alcohol like he used to. Used to be, Dean could knock back five shots like nothing. He would drink beer, shoot pool, and wile away hours in smoky bars before got drunk. And he wouldn't feel it in the morning. Life wasn't like that anymore, Dean thought dejectedly. Now it was taking advil before bed and keeping a trash can handy the next day. Granted, he still drank like an alcoholic fish, but his hangovers were decidedly _not _awesome.

He stood for a moment more before making up his mind and walking away from his car. Walking would do him some good, especially after sitting in a car for so long.

He strode away, not noticing the tiny brown head peeking out from under the Impala.

The next morning was rough. Dean woke up in his motel room with someone that was _not _Jamie and he didn't remember much of anything from last night. He let her use the bathroom before kicking her out of his room. She hadn't really minded: she was as casual a lover as he was, he remembered that much. He showered, scrubbing at his hair with the cheap, citrus shampoo the motel provided. He brushed his teeth and downed two Tylenol, willing his headache away. Fucking hangovers.

Fifteen minutes later, he hauled his duffel into the trunk of the Impala and slammed the door shut. He got in behind the wheel and moved to slam his door shut when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He paused, hunter's instincts kicking in. A puppy the size of his calf was lingering around the corner of the motel, looking him dead in the eye. It lowered its head a fraction before moving slowly toward him, keeping close to the wall of the motel room.

It was just a dog, Dean realized. He moved to close his door. As long as it wasn't about to kill him, Dean didn't much care. He looked over at the dog again and stopped.

_What was a dog doing out here?_ Dean wondered. It looked terrified. He looked around for its owners. It obviously wasn't a stray: its shaggy brown fur looked clean and shiny. Perhaps it was lost?

Dean swung his legs out from beneath the dashboard, determined to help the dog find its owners. Something about this dog struck a chord in him, a chord he hadn't even realized could be struck. At his sudden movement, the puppy stopped, tucking its tail between its legs and shying back. Dean cautiously lowered himself to his knees, opening his hands in supplication.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, little buddy. I just want to figure out where you came from," Dean spoke softly. Internally, he chastised himself. He's speaking to an animal like it could understand him. Jesus Christ, he was a mess. Nevertheless, the puppy had started moving again, so maybe he didn't do too badly. It walked forward trepidatiously, stopping almost two feet from Dean's extended hands.

"Hey, there," Dean grinned before he could stop himself. "What's your name? I'm Dean." _Get a grip, dude,_ he told himself. _Dog don't fuckin' care what your name is._

The puppy closed the gap between them uncertainly, tail still lodged firmly between its legs. It touched Dean's palm with its nose and, sniffing, gave it a small nudge.

And no, Dean did _not _melt a little, because that would be unmanly and Dean was a man. A big manly man with manly man hair and man parts.

The puppy, apparently deciding that Dean was safe, tucked its head into the hollow of Dean's hand, as if to say 'Okay. You can pet me now.'

And no, Dean did not pet the puppy gently, because he was a manly man and manly men didn't pet puppies gently.

Damn, this puppy had some soft fur.

Dean shook himself out of his reverie and looked the dog over. It—make that _he_—had pretty big paws for such a small dog. He would grow up to big. He seemed healthy enough, thank God. Dean's fingers caught on a chain around the dog's neck and, following the chain around, he located a tiny tag. He squinted to see the font.

"Sam," Dean read aloud. "Hi Sam," he said to the dog. Sam wagged his tail slightly, recognizing his own name. That was good. Dean examined the tag more, but it revealed nothing about the dog's owners or anything. Just "Sam."

"Well, buddy," Dean said, tamping down his desire to pick the puppy up to cuddle him, "It seems you don't know where you belong any more than I do. Maybe you have one of those microchip things. You think?"

Sam gave no indication of affirmation. _Which he _wouldn't, Dean noted derisively, _because he's a _dog_, you moron._

"Let's take you to the pound and see if they can sort you out, okay?" Dean said. He found an old blanket and laid it over the passenger seat before picking Sam up and depositing him on the blanket. He drove away from the motel toward an animal shelter he remembered seeing yesterday.

Why was he helping this dog? Dean had never been the bleeding heart type. He'd seen animals mutilated for sacrifices, children ripped apart by vengeful spirits, and much worse. He had a tough skin borne of years of violence and evil-smiting. He didn't take strays to the pound to get sorted out.

But, as his traitorous hand began petting the puppy again, maybe he could change.

* * *

_God, this guy is easy_, Sam thought dryly. He'd noticed the man, _Dean_, when he'd rolled in on his fancy ride yesterday. He had all the markers of a hunter; Sam knew the signs. He'd walked into his room wearing an outfit straight out of an army surplus store and walked back out in a cheap business suit. He had probably heard about the witches and come running.

Sam had watched as Dean came back, obviously relieved about not having to work with witches (at least he was experienced, Sam noted. Witches were godawful.), and went straight to the bars. He had come back with a nice piece of ass. A few hours later (being a dog came with enhanced hearing that did not allow for much privacy), the couple had fallen asleep.

Over the course of the night, Sam had formulated a plan, and, so far, it worked perfectly. The tough guy hunter was a big softie, just as Sam had thought he'd be. All Sam had to do was feign fear and the guy was putty in his hands. Paws. Whatever. Dean was going to take him to the pound and get him checked out. It was pointless—Sam knew he didn't have a microchip—but hey, at the pound he'd get free food and maybe rustle up a few dogfights for fun. With his hunter's instinct paired with his new, canine reflexes, he'd be top dog in no time.

Sam curled up on the blanket Dean had given him, happy that his plan was working so well. Dean began petting him again shortly thereafter and, much to Sam's chagrin, he realized that he liked it. _Must be a dog thing_, Sam rationalized. _It's not like I actually _like _this._

Pretending that he'd convinced himself, Sam gave in to the simple joy of being pet and let himself surrender to sweet, blissful darkness.


	3. Chapter Two- Discovering Doghood

**A/N: Hey, everyone! Here's chapter two! Unbeta'd, and, as always, I'd love feedback if you find any mistakes! Thank you so much to everyone that has favorited/followed this story. I'm starting to hash out the plot details, and I am so excited to share with you the awesome story that's unfolding in my head. Like I mentioned in the prologue, this is my first SPN fic, but it's also my first multi-chaptered fic, and having people who actually subscribed to HatH is absolutely inspiring. Just, ahh. I love you all. Read on.**

"I'm sorry," the vet said, coming into the small room with a few papers in her hand, "but this dog doesn't have a microchip. Other than that, he's in fine health."

"What do you mean? I thought they _all _had microchips these days," Dean argued. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir," the vet smiled apologetically, "We're sure. Most dogs do have microchips. But some owners believe that microchips are unnecessary and cruel. And some, though not many, actually think we might control their pets with the thing!"

Dean tried to laugh, but his heart felt heavy. This puppy would be going to the pound. Granted, he wasn't tiny, but still. Sam would suffer. Dean had seen pound dogs, they were cautious and defensive to the point of meanness.

"Well," he said, dreading the words as they poured from his mouth, "I guess that means he'll be going to the pound, then?"

"Are you not keeping him?" the vet asked, eyes narrowed.

"Well, I mean," Dean fumbled, "It's just me and the road. I can't have a dog. Plus, I know some family would love to have him. Right?" He knew he was trying to convince himself as much as the vet, and he hated himself for it.

"Well, I'm sorry, sir, but the shelter is full at the moment," she replied, her words clipped. "Maybe you and the road can make some room for Sam, because we can't afford it. Have a good day." With those words, she left the room, leaving Dean staring desolately at the bundle of fur curled up on the examination table. Him, Dean Winchester, with a dog? What was he going to do with a dog? Jesus Christ.

* * *

Sam listened carefully to the vet. He wouldn't be staying in the pound. Shame. He'd seen a German Shepard that looked like he could be taken down a few pegs. Oh well. Maybe Dean would keep him. Anything's better than the streets, although Sam supposed that he'd manage that as well, if need be.

"Well, little buddy, I guess it's just you and me," Dean sighed.

_Great, _Sam thought, _another round of cooing and patronization. _To his disbelief, his tail wagged slightly. "No," Sam wanted to say to it, "I'm not happy, stop."

Unfortunately all that came out was a small snorting growl. It didn't stop his traitorous tail; the thing kept wagging back and forth, like some idiot flag of happiness. Dumb thing.

And no, it did not wag harder when Dean smiled down at him. Sentimentality was for fools. Or something.

* * *

Dean watched as Sam wagged his tail at his new owner. It was like the dog knew good news when he heard it. But, nah, that was stupid. Must just be getting used to him, that's all.

Now, if only Dean could get used to Sam. That'll be the hard part.

It turned out that it actually wasn't that hard at all. Sam had kept to himself, mostly, and had fallen asleep just as they crossed the state border between Indiana and Wisconsin. Dean had decided to go to Bobby's while he sorted himself out. The older man would know what to do, he always did.

Bobby Singer was one of the oldest hunters still living in America. He was technically "retired" because he rarely left his home in South Dakota, but everybody in the business knows that true retirement comes only when Death finally rings the dinner bell.

That didn't mean that Bobby had stopped saving people, though. He preferred to handle the theoretical side of hunting in his old age. He spent his days and night rifling through his massive preternatural library, searching for the right bit of information to help hunters kill their target. He had also accumulated a large network of scholars and other higher-ups that would help him whenever his book collection couldn't provide the necessary knowledge.

But Bobby was more than just a source of lore for Dean. Dean had first met Bobby when he was eight years old and just learning to sharpen knives. He and his father, John, were in the middle of hunting a werewolf that turned out to be a rugaru in some nowhere place in Montana. Bobby had rolled into town and taken over the case. John was furious at first, but it turned out that Bobby had handled rugarus before and knew how to kill them, and John knew that he was in way over his head, especially because he had Dean to look out for.

John and Bobby had formed a cautious truce, which was about as close as you got to immediate friendship in the business. Bobby, unlike the Winchesters, had a home base that he could always return to, and he provided reprieve from the endless nights of cheap motels and nickel-a-cake soap. Not that his lumpy sofa was a big step up, but hey, the Winchesters weren't complaining. Dean had always liked Bobby anyways. Bobby, unlike John, enjoyed making Dean laugh, and made sure to spend time with him whenever he could. He even took Dean to the park once. They'd tossed a baseball around and gotten ice cream. It was the first and only time Dean had really felt like a kid.

John had been beside himself, of course, but Bobby had told John to stuff it. Dean had always been a good son—pleasing John was akin to pleasing God Himself, in his eyes—but he had felt a forbidden thrill when someone actually defied the man.

Bobby had quickly become a second father to Dean. John was his commander-in-chief, sure, but Bobby was the one that felt like _home_. Bobby snuck him candy and toy soldiers. He'd even bought him his first skin mag, the old geezer. He was as close as Dean had ever come to normalcy.

A sleepy growl brought Dean out of his reminiscing. He glanced over at Sam, who had fallen asleep about two hundred miles back. The little guy was dreaming, if his twitching paws and aborted snorts were anything to go by.

"Chasing squirrels, are ya, little buddy?" said Dean, trying to fight the grin that was working its way across his face. He knew he was two more comments away from buying panties and shaving his legs, but he couldn't help himself. This dog just didn't stop being cute. And hey, know one else was around to hear him, right?

Dean scrubbed at his lower lip, pushing the thought to the back of his mind. He just needed to get to Bobby. He would know what to do. Hopefully.

* * *

Sam curled tighter into himself, hiding his curled lip under his foot. Seriously? This guy was a fucking hunter? Jesus Christ. It's a wonder he wasn't dead yet, the pansy. Sam swore that if Dean called him "little buddy" one more time, he'd bite through the man's Achilles tendon.

Little buddy…. It was damned emasculating! Sam was a Campbell! A hunter, and a good one! He was a warrior to the undead and festering! He was over six feet of muscle and sinew! He was—

Hungry. Wow, was he hungry. Had he eaten recently? Sam counted back the days. Nope. Not since being a dog, anyway.

"Well, little buddy," Sam bit into his leg so he wouldn't bite Dean, "I don't know about you, but I think my stomach's about to cave in on itself. Whaddya say we make a pit stop and get some burgers?"

Finally, the man had said something not completely stupid. Sam looked up and wagged his tail. Dean grinned at him. "Knew you'd like that," he said. "We'll get you some real dog food when we get to Bobby's, but you'll be okay on beef for a little bit. I think. I haven't really had the chance to meet any dogs, you know, life on the road—"

Sam tuned the man out. Bobby? Bobby Singer, the old drunk in South Dakota? From what Sam had heard, Bobby was the closest thing the hunting community had to a professor. Bobby had also developed a system of telephone numbers and resources so that hunters could sneak into crime scenes and examine corpses while pretending to be federal agents. It was a good idea, one that the Campbell family had quickly copied. But, other than that small innovation, Bobby didn't contribute much other than dusty books and flea-bitten beds.

Sam had never met the man, of course; the Campbells liked to keep to themselves, when it came to the hunting community, and they tended to avoid other hunters. Many of the men and women that fought the supernatural were seeking vengeance for a lost loved one or similar. They were crude, revenge-driven drunkards with little care for their personal well-being or that of the people around them. Samuel had once suggested that that was why many hunters didn't live past forty: they fought to win or die, and no one won, in the end.

The Campbells were different. They didn't hunt for revenge; they hunted because it was who they were. The running joke was that Campbell blood would fell a vampire, if one were ever daring enough to try a taste. No vampire ever had. The Campbells had their own libraries, their own weaponries, and their own medical centers. Hell, they even had a blacksmith that spent his days pouring silver bullets and hammering daggers. They lived above hunters.

The car (which was stupidly showy, in Sam's opinion) rolled to a stop. Sam's new and improved canine nose picked up the scent of grilling meat and salty, fried potatoes. He stood, his tail wagging a little as he salivated.

"Yeah, dude, I know," Dean chortled. "Me too." He got out of the car and walked into the diner. Sam sat and waited patiently. He hoped Dean would know not to actually get him a burger. He doubted dogs did well with onions and pickles.

Twenty minutes later, Dean walked back out with two grease stained paper bags. Sam licked at his chops: it smelled delicious. Dean got into the car and put the bags on the floor in front of Sam's chair. Instincts taking over, Sam crouched down to stick his nose in one of the bags. Oh, it smelled heavenly.

Suddenly, Dean tapped him firmly on the back. "Hey, there, don't. We gotta find a place to chill out first. I know you're hungry, but I doubt people'd take too kindly to me sitting here, feeding a dog in the parking lot. Hold on."

Fine. Sam pulled his snout out of the bag, but he lay down at the edge of the seat so that he could still smell the food. God, he was so hungry.

Dean drove around to the back of the diner, out of sight of the patrons. "Okay, bud. Let's see what we got," he said, pulling boxes out of the bag. "Alright, this one's mine," Dean said, laying a box on his lap. "I got you a little steak. I wasn't sure how you'd handle a burger. Here you go." He opened another box and set it on the chair.

"Don't get grease all over my Baby's seats, you hear?" Dean warned. "You won't like the consequences."

Sam ignored the man, his entire being focused on the gourmet in front of him. The steak wasn't big—it'd hardly even touch his hunger as a human—but it seemed huge compared to his current size. And it was all his. Sam dove for it, digging in with relish.

Flavor burst on his tongue. This wasn't like eating as a human. Everything was so much _more_. Sam could taste sweetness and saltiness and that certain musk of beef. It was indescribably good. The spices were like fireworks of sensation, complementing the savory taste of meat perfectly. Every bite tasted better and better, new flavors constantly exploding like Christmas presents for his mouth. Sam couldn't get enough.

Before he knew it, however, the steak was gone. Luckily, it had come with a bone. Ignoring how weird it should have been to gnaw a bone, and how weird it was that it _didn't_ feel weird, Sam got to work licking some exposed marrow.

"Wow, dude," Dean commented, his mouth full of burger, "you tore through that pretty quick."

_Yeah, you would too, if steak tasted like sex and pepper_, Sam wanted to say. Unfortunately, being a dog didn't allow for conversation, and his mouth was busy anyway. He chewed with a single-minded intensity until his attention was called away by the unmistakable scent of French fries.

Dean noticed Sam's change of behavior and laughed. "You want one?" he offered, holding out a fry. "Just don't get it in your head that this is gonna become a regular thing. I don't want you begging me every time I get food."

Sam didn't even hear him. He was experiencing the nirvana that was fried potato. How had he never liked French fries before? Obviously they were one of the best foods ever, second only to steak. The oil was just a little creamy (_Must have been peanut oil_, Sam thought) and it enhanced the sweetness of the potato so well he could cry. And the salt! The salt tasted—well, it didn't even feel like a taste. Salt tasted like _need_, like it was the most necessary nutrient he would ever ingest.

He realized, with growing horror, that he would gladly do anything to get more tangy, sharp, beautiful salt. Suddenly, he understood dogs a lot better: he would lick the sweat off Dean's body if it meant he could have salt.

Although, it wouldn't have taken much convincing to get Sam to lick at Dean anyway. The man was beautiful. His looks toed the line of femininity, almost in defiance of his tough-guy persona. _Except he isn't very tough around me_, Sam thought amusedly. Nonetheless, Dean was the kind of guy that Sam would have admired from afar, but never flirted with. Dean looked like he could pack a pretty nasty punch, and Sam didn't like getting beat up if he didn't have to.

A new scent wafted towards him. This one was distinctly sweeter, with just a hint of tang. He peered into the box Dean was currently opening.

"Pie," Dean explained. "This is pie. Betcha never seen pie before. Here, have a cherry."

Dean pulled a little piece of cherry out of the side of his pie and gave it to Sam. Sam licked the cherry off his fingers and, driven by another wave of blissful flavor, licked off all of the syrup that remained. The syrup was even better than the fruit: it was sweet, almost bewilderingly so, and tangy, but not the same tangy as salt, and _fruity_. But there was something else, a flavor that the cherry hadn't had. It was just barely salty and very musky, and a touch sour. It was heavenly. Something deep within him said _male_. But how could a taste be male? Unless…

Sam cast a glance up at Dean, who was enjoying his pie. Was that flavor _Dean?_ Further tests were needed. He whined softly, earning Dean's attention.

"You want more? You shouldn't beg, you know," Dean chastised. Sam lowered his head, feeling slightly consternated. _Master is angry at me_. The idea—more feeling than thought—tore through him like hot, shameful fire. It was an instinct, a deep urge to be good to this man who had taken such good care of him, and it was utterly foreign to Sam, who hadn't willfully taken orders since he turned eighteen. He looked up at Dean balefully, wondering why this stranger had such pull over him.

Apparently his gaze looked pleading, because Dean rolled his eyes, offering another cherry to Sam. Sam lapped it up eagerly, cleansing his palate of the taste (and Lord have _mercy_, it was good) so he could taste Dean.

_Oh,_ Sam thought, finally getting a real swipe of Dean-taste. It was the taste from the syrup, but, uncontaminated by the sugary confection, it was even _better_. Dean didn't taste like food tasted. He tasted like person, whatever that meant. He tasted strong and male and virile and dominating and like _Master_.

Sam shook himself a little. No, Dean couldn't taste like "Master." Sam had no master. He was a human, dammit, not an actual dog. And even if Sam did have a master, it wouldn't be Dean. No fucking way.

He moved away from the man, curling back up on his blanket. Between his discoveries with food and this internal battle of instinct and cognizance, Sam was drained. The last thing he saw was Dean, grinning down at him, a tiny smudge of cherry on the corner of his lip.

_I want to lick it off_, Sam thought, before darkness fell over him once more.

* * *

This fucking dog would be the death of him, Dean knew. Every time he saw the lump of brown shag, Dean felt a bubble of warmth in his chest that worried him in a bad way. It felt like love, and hunters were never supposed to feel that. Love tied you down, it made you weak. It was inappropriate for a lifestyle that involved mortal peril. At least it was just a dog. If Dean felt this way about a human, well, that would be _really _bad.

Dean sighed and flipped on the radio. AC/DC blared through his speakers and, sparing one last look at the puppy that had somehow claimed his heart in but a few short hours, he cleared his mind of any thought and let the road lead him onward.

**A/N: So Sam's learning a lot about being a dog, huh? And yay, he's officially Dean's! Woohoo! ;).  
**

**Soon: Dean and Sam go to Bobby's. What will Bobby think of Sam? More importantly, what will Sam think of Bobby? And we find out Sam's breed! I know you all are dying to find out. Review with guesses! I'll tell you who got it right next chapter. :)  
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	4. Chapter Three- Bobby's

**A/N: I am so sorry you guys. Apparently I uploaded Chapter 2 twice! I'm so embarrassed. Thank you to gapdragon1 and firesage101 for pointing this out! This chapter is dedicated to you two.**

Dean drove through the night, stopping only to relieve himself and the dog. Dawn was just beginning to break when he reached Bobby's scrap heap. As Dean turned the Impala off, Sam looked up, placing his front paws on the armrest to peer out the window. He wagged his tail and looked back at Dean excitedly.

Snorting, Dean leaned over and opened the passenger door. Sam leapt out, sniffing at the gravel immediately. Dean walked up to Bobby's front door, a mixture of worry and anticipation making him pause. What if Bobby didn't like dogs? How had he never considered that?

As if on cue, Bobby opened his front door. "Hey, Dean," he said, sounding pleased, "Wasn't expecting to see you anytime soon."

Dean immediately relaxed. This was Bobby, there was nothing to worry about. "Hey Bobby. I know, I wasn't expecting to come by, either, but something came up."

"What kinda something?" Bobby asked warily. Dean understood: usually when someone asked Bobby for help, it involved either marathon reading or nasty spellwork. Dean wasn't sure which was worse.

Bobby's question was answered when Sam wandered up from the step, bored with the tire he has previously been sniffing curiously, and leaned up against Dean's leg.

"Bobby, I'd like you to meet Sam," Dean said cautiously.

Bobby looked down at the puppy, his face unreadable. "Huh," he grunted.

* * *

Sam was fascinated. He'd never seen such a multitude of smelly objects in his life. Not that they smelled bad, per say. Actually, not much smelled bad anymore. As a dog, scent was more complicated than that. The tire he had examined smelled not just of rubber, but also of dust and rain and forests and, faintly, piss. Rather than being repulsed by the smell, Sam was absolutely intrigued by it. Was this what being a dog was really like? Because, and loath he may be to admit it, Sam didn't mind being a dog too much. It was far more interesting than being human.

Well, being color blind sucked. He missed the greenness of grass and the crystal blue of the sky. Honestly, though, the rest of his senses more than made up for it. From his current position on the stoop, Sam could smell the bitter whiskey Bobby had been drinking, the sweet musk of Dean's sweat, the acrid motor oil in the shed a few yards away, and the dusty aroma of Bobby's library. And those were just the loudest smells to pick out. Distantly (because Sam could judge the distance of a smell, now, as well), Sam could smell the blood of a deer that has been recently felled in a nearby forest and the sweet fragrance of a peach cobbler cooling in the kitchen of one of Bobby's neighbors. It reminded Sam that, until Dean got around to getting him dog food, he would be sampling more varieties of new-and-improved human cuisine. His tail wagged in anticipation.

He tuned back into the conversation just as Bobby was beginning to speak. "Well," he said gruffly, "come on inside. Ain't no use standing around out here letting the bugs in."

Sam really looked at Bobby for the first time. The man was surprisingly close to what he'd imagined. Bobby was a touch shorter than Dean and rather pudgier. What little face Sam could see through Bobby's scruffy beard was wrinkled and worn. The man dressed like an actual animal hunter, from the down vest down to the leather work boots. A worn, dirty ball cap rested on Bobby's head, which was most likely concealing a receded hairline. The hat looked like Bobby had worn it everyday for the last twenty years. Hell, maybe he had. The thought made Sam wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Bobby stank of bad whiskey. He obviously drank the stuff like water, just like Sam's family had said. Beneath the whiskey, Sam could smell hard-water soap and clean, musky sweat.

_At least the man bathed_, Sam thought with derision. He followed Dean into the house, quickly getting distracted by the massive stacks of books piled everywhere. They lined every wall, narrowing passages and shortening rooms. Bobby's collection rivaled the Campbells', who had an actual library. Sam briefly wished he was human so he could peruse the tomes, of which many weren't even in English. Sam wondered how Bobby read them; obviously he couldn't actually read all of these languages. He must use a translator.

But Bobby didn't have a computer, it seemed. Old man probably just didn't know how to turn the things on.

"Dean, I know I'm going to regret asking this," Bobby said, his voice exasperated, "but how in the Hell did you get a dog?"

"Well," Dean hedged, ruffling his hair, "I found him?"

"Yeah, and?" Bobby prompted.

"And he seemed lost, so I took him to the pound, but they didn't have room, so I just took him with me," Dean explained to his feet, scuffing the toe of one boot on the carpet. He obviously felt that Bobby's opinion was important, Sam noted.

"You took him _with you_?" Bobby replied, his tone irate. "You didn't bother to think that maybe owning a dog with a life on the road may be a little, I don't know, damned _foolish_?"

"What else was I supposed to do?" Dean snapped back. "He had no tags, no chip, nothing!"

"Oh, I don't know, LEAVE HIM THERE?" Bobby thundered. Dean was silent for a moment, taking the time to sort through his next words.

"Bobby, I kill things for a living," Dean replied, his tone quiet and measured, but growing more desperate as he continued. "I saw this puppy, no family to go back to, no possible chance of survival, and I just, I couldn't. I—I know what it feels like to have no home to go to. I've lived my whole life that way. I just couldn't let an innocent life wither away simply because it's inconvenient—" he spat the word out "—to me."

"I ain't died on you yet, boy," Bobby interjected, his eyes soft even though his voice had gone hard. He breathed a bone-weary sigh. "Yeah, okay. You're a fully grown man, I can't tell you what to do. But you better take care of him Dean," his eyes had hardened again. "You will never forgive yourself if you let this dog die."

Well, that wasn't going to happen anyway, Sam thought. He had no intentions of dying, dog or not.

"Yeah, of course," Dean said, obviously relieved that Bobby wasn't angry. "Actually, I was thinking—"

"Never a good thing," Bobby commented gruffly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Har har har," Dean replied sarcastically. "As I was SAYING, I was thinking that maybe he could help on hunts. I mean, dogs are supposed to be more attuned to the supernatural or something, right? So we could train him up a bit, teach him how to attack creatures and trail scents and stuff. You know?"

Sam felt a sudden, warm rush of affection (gratitude, Sam corrected) for the man. He was itching to hunt again, especially with his new, enhanced senses. He bet it would be absolutely exhilarating.

"That... That ain't actually a bad idea, kid," Bobby admitted. "Might be nice to have some help, after-" he broke off, uncomfortable. Dean stilled, his face a careful mask. Sam wondered what had happened, for obviously something had.

"So," Bobby changed the subject, "he got a name?"

"Yeah, he had a tag that said 'Sam,'" Dean responded. "Nothing else, just Sam."

"Well, Sam here has quite a bit of growing to do," Bobby observed, "if his paws are any indicator. I'll try to dig around, see if we can figure out what kind of dog he is. You bought him food yet?"

"No," Dean said, embarrassed. "I kinda just came here. Didn't know what else to do."

Bobby's eyes warmed. "You did good, kid," he praised, moving to squeeze Dean's shoulder. "We might just make a decent human being outta you yet." Both men broke into grins at that. "Now go get him some food. Local pet store's just in town, they oughta be able to help you figure everything out."

"Sounds good," Dean said. "Come on, Sam."

Sam moved to follow him, but Bobby's voice halted them both. "Why don't you leave him here with me? He can't go in—he don't have a leash yet—and I bet he'd like some water. We'll get him all settled."

As if on cue, Sam's throat burned with sudden thirst. When had he drunk last? Days ago?

"Yeah, okay," Dean acquiesced uneasily. "I'll try to be back in less than an hour." He slipped on his faded leather jacket and, with one last look at Sam, left the house. Seconds later, Sam heard the Impala roar to life and peel out of Bobby's driveway.

"That boy'll be gone the whole day," Bobby chuckled. Sam turned his head and looked at the older man, who was assessing him carefully.

"Let's figure out what breed you are, whaddya think?" he asked. "I'd like to figure out just how big you're gonna get."

Bobby turned to his library, which allowed Sam to examine him again, this time with a closer eye. Despite Sam's original conclusion, Bobby was nothing like he had pictured. He had expected someone stony and dry, someone affected so much by the loss of whatever loved one pushed him into hunting that he was but a shell of himself, lost in drink and despair. He had most definitely _not_ pictured the warm and caring person currently searching his books. Bobby was, believe it or not, one of the most well-adjusted hunters Sam had ever seen.

Well, either that or he was just one of the best at maintaining his façade. With hunters, the distinction was almost indistinguishable.

"Well, Sam, I hate to say this, but I don't have anything on dogs. And I coulda swore… Well, never mind that. Lemme just make a call." Bobby seemed to be talking more to himself than Sam as he walked into his kitchen and unhooked one of the many receivers on the wall. Sam noticed that each of them had a name: "FBI," "Court Marshall," "CDC," "Police," "Health Department," and, lastly, "Personal." Sam found himself assessing the older man yet again. The phone system seemed hectic and confusing; it must require extraordinary amounts of patience.

No, Bobby wasn't what Sam had expected at all. He found that he actually liked the gruff old man. It was obvious that he and Dean had a long and treasured history together—a thought that delighted Sam on a deep, instinctual level—and they seemed very comfortable with each other. Domestic, even, and that was unheard of in the hunting world. Even the Campbells, who were linked by the strongest bond of all—that of blood—had no such intimacy. Somehow, Sam had managed to worm his way into the middle of this odd family of Singer-Winchester. He knew he had no business being as pleased as he was by this revelation, but Sam found that he didn't rightly care.

"Hey Ellen," Bobby said. He was speaking into a wireless phone he'd unhooked from the kitchen wall. "Oh, sorry, hi Jo. I'm sorry. No—no, Jo, you don't sound like your mother… Yes, I know." Bobby swiped down his face with the palm of your hand. "Alright Jo, I hear ya. Can you put Ash on the line for me?"

He paused for a moment. "Thanks, great. Say hi to your mom for me." He paused again, waiting for the line to transfer. "Women," he muttered under his breath.

Sam snorted. He was liking Bobby more and more.

"Hey Ash," Bobby greeted, sounding relieved. "Things are pretty good here. That idjit Rufus got himself caught in the middle of a vampire's nest the other week. I had to drive all the way out to Kentucky to save his sorry ass. How have things been at the Roadhouse?"

Sam's new and improved hearing could just make out the other man's words. Something about setting up a better encryption on the Roadhouse's firewall. Bobby eyes glazed over as Ash expounded on the brilliance of his new security checks.

"That's great, Ash," Bobby sighed, finally interrupting him. "Listen, can you look something up for me on the Internet?" The way he emphasized the word assured Sam that at least part of his original assessment had been true: Bobby knew next to nothing about computers.

"Yeah, I've just found myself with a dog that I ain't got no idea what to do with," Bobby said. Sam heard Ash's voice swell slightly in shock. "I know, I know. Dean brought him in, and you know how that boy can get. Anyways, we have no idea what we're getting ourselves into. Is there any way you can, you know, find a breed based on physical characteristics?"

Ash answered excitedly, his words too jumbled to make out.

"Alright, alright, sounds good." Bobby's voice had returned to the aggrieved tone it had taken on with Jo. Sam curled his upper lip is amusement. Maybe Bobby's patience wasn't so extraordinary, after all.

"Well, he's brown. That probably ain't too helpful. He seems pretty young, but he's already halfway up my desk. He's, I dunno, shaggy… No, no, his snout is long, not stubby… Yeah, yeah, his fur is long. Well, not, like, sheepdog long, just, you know, shaggy. Like I _said_." Bobby took off his ball cap and scratched at his head. Make that two correct assumptions.

The voice on the phone took a placating tone. "Yeah, Ash, I'm sorry," Bobby apologized wearily, "just been a trying day. Have you found anything yet? You don't say. You sure? And just how big do they get? Wait—how big? _Balls_," Bobby groaned. "Okay. Anything else I should know?"

Whatever Ash told Bobby sobered the older man immensely. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, I'll let Dean know. Hey, say hello to Ellen for me? I asked Jo, but I doubt she did it. Thanks, Ash." He hung up the phone and looked at Sam again, his gaze even more scrutinizing than before.

"An Irish Wolfhound, huh?" Bobby commented. "Ain't that just our luck."

He moved to his desk and poured himself a tumbler of whiskey before sitting and reading a weathered tome with a single-minded intensity, which left Sam alone to think.

An Irish Wolfhound? All Sam knew about them was that they were massive. Tallest dogs in the world, or something, right? Made sense: he was well over average height when he was a human, why would his canine self be any different?

But something had surprised Bobby, and not in the good way. Sam wracked his brain, trying to remember everything he could about the breed he had become. Sadly, he knew next to nothing about dogs, as the Campbells found information that didn't involve supernatural monsters to be irrelevant and superfluous.

Sam was surprised when the thought angered him. He had often become annoyed with the rest of his family—it was one of the most normal things about their relationship—but he had rarely felt genuine anger toward them before.

It had only happened once, actually, when Sam was just graduating high school. He had wanted to continue on to college. "Wanted" was a weak term for his feelings: he had been desperate to go, to leave behind the madness of the supernatural world, and live a normal, average life. He'd even gotten accepted to Stanford.

Samuel, however, had no intentions of letting Sam go to college. When the boy had confronted him, Samuel had shouted at him, punched him so hard he fell to the ground, and commanded that Sam get the foolish notion of normalcy out of his head. Sam was a Campbell, and that meant hunting. End of story.

Sam had been so angry that he took his car, a beat-up Toyota Camry, and left town for a week. He'd come back cold, but compliant. Samuel either hadn't noticed the change, or he didn't care.

Either way, it didn't matter. Sam had closed himself off permanently, for better or worse, he didn't know. He had become the best damned hunter he could be—not caring seemed to help, in that regard—and Samuel had nearly shined in happiness.

But now Sam was angry again, really properly angry. He was feeling, for the first time in a decade. Horrified, Sam tried to squash the ire out of his system, but to no avail.

He had started to care after almost ten years of meticulous apathy.

It terrified him.

**A/N: I am so so so sorry about the wait... But I feel obligated to tell you that updates might/will be this spaced out from now on. I'm currently embroiled in the Hannibal fandom (yes, I'm a Fannibal. Hush.) and it's drawing my attention away from this story. I will keep working on it, I promise, but I won't be updating every other day like I have been. **

**[Insert shameless plug about my Hannibal works and how you should read them]  
**

**In other news, I'm really not sure about this chapter. I edited it twice, but I'm still not sure about how it turned out. Feel free to let me know in a review! To me, it feels kind of weird. I loved writing Bobby, though.  
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**A note on Dean: He seems OOC here. I know. Let me explain. The way I see it, canon!Dean had to grow up quickly because John was an absent father and Sam needed a parent. Dean spent most of his childhood looking out for Sam and protecting him from monsters as well as his father's wrath. In this story, Dean didn't have Sam to protect, so he _was_ the child in the family. I think that would make him softer and more vulnerable, especially around Bobby. It's kind of like I'm combining Dean's innate personality with Sam's youthful naivete for HatH!Dean. Does that make sense? Hopefully so. If you feel that Dean is still too OOC for comfort, please do let me know. I am a malleable writer, and I take my readers opinions very seriously.  
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**Thank you for reading! :)**


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